What is Haute Dish?
Published three times a year, Haute Dish is dedicated to showcasing the literary and artistic talent
of the students of Metropolitan State University in Saint Paul, Minnesota.
Currently, we are accepting electronic submissions from current Metropolitan State students, faculty,
staff and alumni for the Summer 2012 issue. The deadline for submissions is April 27, 2012.
To view detailed submission guidelines and more information about our selection process,
visit us on the Web. www.hautedish.metrostate.edu

From the Editor
Welcome to the Spring 2012 issue.
We have a great group of editors who have diligently read,
debated and voted on every submission. We hope you enjoy
reading and viewing our editors’ picks and, keep in mind,
picking is hard to do. The submissions by Metropolitan State
students have consistently been getting better and better with
every issue. Really...we were all impressed.
We are already taking submissions for our next issue,
Summer 2012. Annually, the summer issue is open to
Metropolitan State’s entire community: students, faculty,
staff and alumni. Don’t be bashful. You will see that our editors
vote “blind” and more than one submission by the same
author/artist often gets published. Submit a lot. We read and
view everything and we love ( with kisses) doing it. As you know,
we cannot print everything so don’t take it personally if your
piece(s) does not get published. Submit more!
There is no theme, suggestions or ideas being offered this issue.
Sometimes that’s fun but sometimes...not so much. This issue we
want the sky to be the limit. (That was NOT a suggestion.)
Also, we would L VE to see you at Haute Dish’s literary reading,
March 2, 7:30 p.m., at the Riverview Cafe and Wine Bar,
3745-3753 42nd Ave. S., Minneapolis. It will be a great time.
We promise!
As always, thank you for your support and the time you spend
with us. We appreciate you.

All copyrights are retained by
individual artists and authors.
Any unauthorized reprint or use of this
material is strictly prohibited. Haute Dish
is a production of Metropolitan State
University and is made possible in part
by student activity fees.

I’m tired of being a stranger
to the soil I tread upon.
I see you grounded
in the earth—
a mere extension
of itself.
I ache to know
it as you do—
to feel
the innermost pulse
of the forest floor;
to feel connected
to what will never leave.

Instead, I am like the birds,
always fleeing; distant,
like my affections
often are—
swimming above the clouds.
I wish you could
make me believe
the sky holds no escape,
that my feet
will be safe
when firmly
planted in the earth.

Toasted
Diane DeRosier Douglass
4

Chicken Nuggets: A Mystery
Peter Laine

It doesn’t matter that they were $2.99 or the ubiquity of
the golden arches. What matters is that they are gone,
taken from the refrigerator and eaten by some unknown
assailant. Things like that are not OK. Things like that
are diabolical. You do not eat another person’s food
from a communal place of rest. Even if it is week old
and growing mold, you do not take another persons
food. It is unfathomable. You do not, under the guise of
hunger or desperation, reach into the cold storage locker
of which we call the refrigerator and wrap your greasy
fingers around the box of deliciousness, sneak off to some
godforsaken hiding place and munch away like some
ravenous beast.

Sure, it really could be anyone. It could even be the
nightly janitorial service. Apocryphal theories at best,
because based off all of the crime thrillers or detective
stories in movies, television and books, the culprit
always remains close to the scene of the crime. This
is common knowledge, people. Sue, I know you love
Criminal Thoughts, the show about a team of FBI agents
who specialize in profiling. Isn’t that what they say?
The criminal always returns to the scene of the crime.
Isn’t it true that crimes take place in familiar vicinities?
Naturally, the predator would not travel to uncomfortable
territory, correct? It seems illogical. Plausible? Yes.
Unlikely? More so.

OK, now that you are all here in the conference room,
nicely seated and attentive, today the department was
made aware that someone’s leftover chicken nuggets
are missing. As stated in the group email, nefarious
underpinnings are possible, but the suspects all claimed
innocence; the suspects being you and you and you and
well, everyone that is here. The culprit offered not a
single reply and refused to step forward. Evidence is
thin. If one did take the little morsels of goodness out of
evil or out of spite or because hunger had overwhelmed
them to a point of theft, let them face the wrath of the
office inquiry! Let them come forth and admit their illicit
act! The chicken nuggets will not be lost in vain!

People – calm down, calm down. Please abide your
finger pointing or ill informed bias to those that you
deem perpetrators until the investigation is over. Lessen
the murmuring and side discussions. Let’s continue with
some of the facts.

The victim – heart-broken and famished and wishing to
remain nameless – wants retribution for the theft, but
did not have the courage to spur an individual
investigation, which is why his or her voice was heard,
which is why your commander-in-chief, head honcho,
floor manager, yours truly, is up here conducting this
meeting. You’re all staged here in the conference room
and will be held until the rule-breaker is discovered.
Get comfortable. Have some coffee, sample a fruit snack.
Let us get down to the details.
This group has access to the west-side break-room, where
the object in question was removed. Logistics bundle
all of you together, since it would not make sense for
perhaps McGummery over on the east-side to walk all the
way over to the west-side just to heat up a bagel, let alone
steal another’s meal, now would it?
Marge, you have a question?

It was buried behind Jell-O and a covered bowl of tuna
and a bag of vegetables that frankly were beginning to
turn. All said items were pushed aside, leaving a small
path directly to the chicken nuggets, and were not moved
back to their original location. This could be looked at
as a calling card, or a way for the perpetrator to insult
to victim. It could be a taunt, asking the victim to go
ahead, try again, the path is mine and the prize at the
end is mine alone. But digression has led you astray.
The time the nuggets were placed in the refrigerator was
somewhere between 12:00PM and 1:00PM, a period of
high traffic in the break-room. Upwards of five to ten
people could have witnessed the storage of the nuggets
and knew where to look. The following day, when the
victim decided to satisfy a mid-morning craving, the
nuggets were gone. This puts the crime somewhere
between 12:00 PM and 10:00AM, sixteen hours give or
take, allowing the perpetrator plenty of time to ruminate
on the question: To steal or not to steal? Yes, this was no
extemporaneous decision. It was cold and calculated.
Planned from the moment those savory nuggets were
put in the break-room. Perhaps his or her cube is close
enough that a surreptitious lean in their ergonomic chair
could allow them full view to the comings and goings.
Perhaps he or she took in the aroma and it planted itself
like some infectious disease and over the course of time,
hunger destroyed their moral compass and pushed out
the devious task. It does limit the suspects, but jumping
to conclusions, despite how obvious, hinders the
judicious process.
continued on next page...
5

Chicken Nuggets

continued

The cardboard box that contained the nuggets was found
in a trash bin near the door to the elevators. You are led
to believe that perhaps the culprit did this as a means to
mask their crime. To place the only physical evidence
in a no-man’s land is cunning indeed, but not fool-proof.
Would you attempt such subterfuge? Would you try
to manipulate the truth by throwing away one of, if not
the only, key item of the crime and have it sitting in full
view? It does seem unlikely.
Last but not least, no one saw or smelled, for that matter,
the consumption of the nuggets themselves, which tells
us that they were consumed cold and in a secret location.
Perhaps the criminal had a large receptacle to store the
item in question. Perhaps something like a purse or carry
bag. Again, this limits the scope and range of culprits to
the female persuasion, yet there is no undeniable proof.
Each individual morsel could have been placed in a
pocket or suitcase, factoring in the male persuasion, but
again no undeniable proof.
You could say there are many options and conclusions
to be drawn, but for the most part there are two things
known for sure: the box was tossed away near the
elevators and therefore they must have been eaten
in that vicinity. Thinking it over, they could have
traveled per aforementioned possibilities and ended up
in Powderhorn, the conference room out in the lobby,
eaten in peace and quiet, free of guilt and paranoid eyes,
finished and thought – although lacking in wisdom – to
toss the box aside in the trash, then made a dash for the
elevators where, once down in the food court, hunger
adverted, waited out the discovery of the theft and came
up hours later (not to mention stealing time from the
company) to claim ignorance.

6

You have questioned the motivation for this fallacy
and have a commonplace realization about the crime.
As you have all said, it is only chicken nuggets, a mere
$2.99 for a five piece meal. Yes, this is true, but it’s the
importance of the crime itself. You cannot have people
taking as they choose, regardless of the item being
unmarked. It is a simple understanding: If it’s not yours,
do not eat it. How can this be misunderstood? You all
have followed this rule and stood or sat harmoniously,
fulfilling proper etiquette and obligation to each others
lunch or snack. The earnestness of this vile act is worth
noting, and the culprit will be dealt per Human Resources
codes of conduct.
Now, you all claim innocence. Respectable and valiant
you are not, because the culprit is here in this very room.
You see, for one to enter Powderhorn, one must scan
their way in. Only two entered that room between the
predetermined times gathered by the analysis. Yes, you
and Megan. Megan, who is in IT, needed to go in there
to set up a projector, had a reason for entry. Yes you,
sitting between Suzanne and Robert, on the other hand
had no reason. You scanned and entered. Why? Is there
a reason for your entry? No, there isn’t, is there? Do
you still taste the breaded crust? Do you still smell the
oily residue on your fingers? How does it feel to be a
criminal? No, don’t run. The doors are locked from the
outside. You didn’t do it? Lies. Evidence doesn’t lie,
while you stand there and lie through your teeth. Ah,
here they come to take you away. Don’t fight it. HR will
be contacting you at home. Good day!
Now, who’s up for a trip to the land of golden arches for
some delicious chicken nuggets?

Standing Still

How Did I Get Here?

He sat there in the alleyway
strumming three simple
chords on his guitar.

In a windowless labyrinth
of hallways whose door numbers
read: 206, 242, 227 and so on
in the same non-order.

Sarai Meyer

Amber Anderson

His music made the birds
cry and kept the children
from their play.

My strappy heels are killing
my back and my dress
slouches off my shoulder.
Who is this boy? His arm

Time kneeled down to the ground,
closing its latent eyes
to the beautiful sound.

around my waist and his
breath invading my
lungs. My throat contracts
quickly and I wish I was

The man asked,
“Can you tell a poor man’s
candle lit room from rays
of the sun in late June?”
A woman looked up from her sink
through her window to see
the man with his guitar
spill the last ounce of his drink.

in my car, turning the cold
key in the ignition and feeling
the generated heat dry my
running makeup. I wish I was
turning up the radio, hearing
Regina Spektor reassure me
“I am so drunk and there’s no one here
to stop me from being so eccentric
and being so lonely.”

The mellow tune
carried on into a whisper
and the man hunched over,
fading under a yellow moon.

and I’m not the only one
who has ever
stood in a pool
of glass slivers
with grey goose
vodka dripping
down my new
peach dress.

Aviary Sequence
#1
An Alphabetic Murder

crow C

crow D

crow A

crow B

crow E

crow F
7

Heidi Fuhr

My crusty eyes blink open and my entire field of vision is
filled with a fading blue swastika tattooed on a muscled
bicep. I sit up, pulling my sticky face away from the
stranger’s arm. My heart pumps fast and weak like the heart
of a flailing, anemic lab rat. I need water.
There is a forty-ounce bottle of Colt 45 next to me, half
full of tepid malt liquor and cigarette butts. My mouth feels
and tastes like a cat litter box. I reek of bottom-shelf vodka
extruded through skin, a smell at once sweet and sour,
antiseptic and rancid. I can’t even remember meeting the
man next to me, much less his name. As I crawl out from
under a scratchy blanket I can only assume belongs to him,
more swastikas and other ugly tattoos are exposed on his
neck and chest. All of them have the grainy, blue-black look
of prison ink except for an inexplicably childish, full-color
Roadrunner. I shudder, choking on waves of undefined
shame and regret. I have to get out of this room.
I am naked but for my boots. My filthy jeans and
tank top are on the floor among a pile of broken drywall
chunks—a hole I could climb through has been smashed
into the wall. I can’t find my panties.
At least I know where I am. I haven’t been in this room
before, but something about the light coming through the
broken-out window assures me I’m at the Pink Fortress,
perhaps only steps from the room I share with my best
friend, Dee. I locate my panties under the blanket, exposing
more of the man’s naked body. His penis is monolithic.
I silently dress and steal his cigarettes before climbing
through the hole in the wall.
The Pink Fortress is a city-block-sized abandoned
apartment building painted bubblegum pink, rotting away
in a squalid neighborhood. All the gutter punks sleep here
when they come to town, but only on the third floor. The
first and second floors have been claimed by crackheads.
We don’t often see them; they’re evasive nocturnal animals,
either darting around or hidden in dark crevices. They don’t
come up here and we don’t go down there, unless we want
to buy crack. I don’t like crack; it tends to heighten my
shame rather than subdue it like alcohol does.
The Pink Fortress surrounds a courtyard. Perhaps once
it contained a picnic table and a grill, maybe a basketball
hoop or a garden. Now it is a heap of the detritus of evicted
tenants: rusted shopping carts; an assortment of old tires;
drooping, feculent mattresses; the door to a 1985 Buick
LeSabre; black and white garbage bags ripped and spilled
and strewn over the armature of wreckage like spider webs.
And glass. Broken pints, fifths, quarts, forties, liters, and
jugs in green and brown and clear, shards clinging to the
backs of yellowed labels both foreign and domestic but
mostly cheap. We call it the pit. The boys go down there
to fight. Sometimes they fight for fun and sometimes they
fight because they want to kill each other, but they always
hope the girls are watching. We are.

The glaring midday sun blinds me when I exit the
ragged hole in the wall and step onto the third-floor
walkway that surrounds the pit. A few people dangle their
legs over the edge on the shady side, near my room. Dee
is among them. She knows me so well she can read the
ignominy on my face from five yards away and she gives me
a piteous, yet loving look.
“Who did you wake up with?” she says with neither
judgment nor impunity.
“I don’t know,” I say as I sit down next to her.
She offers me a cold beer. I take it and gulp as though it
was the water my body so badly needs. I know it will soon
restore strength to my septic rodent heart and disperse the
vague sense of dread. “He has a humongous dick, though,”
I show her, estimating its length and girth with my hands.
“Wow,” she says, “Are you gonna do it again?”
“Probably not. I don’t remember anything.” Even as
I say it, my mind flickers base, crepuscular flashes from
the night before. Climbing a ladder with him to some
dank place. Leaning against a giant pink teddy bear getting
fucked. Shooting up something—maybe coke?—from a
blackened spoon. “Oh, God,” I say, rubbing my eyeballs
until the red turns black, pushing on them until I see flashes
of light, trying not to think about the dubious origin of the
coke needle or the likelihood that no condoms were used.
After all, it’s too late to fix it now.
“Shh,” says Dee, putting her arm around me and softly
kissing my forehead. I don’t even have to tell her. She
knows about the humiliating internal slide show that
follows a blackout. “Well,” she offers, “I woke up covered
with piss and I can’t figure out if it was mine or the guy’s
I was sleeping with.” We laugh weakly.
I loudly belch and jettison my empty beer bottle into
the pit, listening until I hear the satisfying crunch of glass
on more glass.
Dee opens another beer as the man with the swastikas
climbs out of the hole in the wall. My epileptic rabbit heart
weakly pumps watery blood as he walks toward us. I stare at
an avocado-colored refrigerator in the pit as he stops behind
me. He grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back.
He brushes his lips on my neck and reaches between my
thighs to grab his stolen pack of cigarettes.
“I’m getting some beer,” he says. “Be right back.”
We watch him saunter down the stairs and through the
pit to the exit nearest the bodega where we get our beer and
cigarettes and cheese fries.
“He’s kinda sexy,” Dee says.
“He’s covered with swastikas.”
Dee pauses, thinking. “Maybe that was just for prison?”
As she stares into the pit I know she’s thinking about
checking out his anatomy for herself if I don’t want him, but
as the beer settles into my bloodstream, I think I might.

Eggplants for Amy
Rebekah Pahr
22 x 30", charcoal on Arches.

Purity Is
Sarai Meyer

a boy in overalls
and
a girl in rainboots
on the playground,
holding hands.
9

Homage
Donna Ronning

After I die,
my life will rise up
as a thousand birds
to sparkle your eyes
with the stars of my joy.
But for now,
Mother Earth embraces
this trembling body
in gentle remembrance
of Sunâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s parting kisses.
Will you raise your glasses high
to toast my struggle
and drink deeply all my love?
For I want to be a
whirlwind in your hearts!
If you wander the halls
of forgotten hopes and dreams,
in my lightning strike
you will be shocked
by my fierce protest.
At the moment of final release,
all the colors of my spirit
will dance across the boreal sky
with fresh paint strokes
dreaming auroral skyscapes.
10

Jerimy Grafenstein

There was a blur of color, and metal, and the icky
smell of burning rubber. Then pain.
My dad’s here! I can’t say how. He was at work, but
now he’s at my side. My bully, the clunky blue pick-up
truck, is bouncing past dad’s car, which is sitting in the
middle of the road, the driver’s door open. It’s funny, but
all I can think about is his car and how he needs to get it
off the road, because he’s stopping other cars from going
by.
“I saw it all,” I hear dad tell someone, though I can’t
say who.
There’s blood, I think, and pain, and blackness.

I’m not really even hurt, but I’m in a hospital. Sparkly
cards with stupid cartoon characters on them looking
like they were made for six year-olds sit on a table by
the bed. Some doctor comes in to holler at me about
looking both ways before crossing the road. He talks to
me like I’m five.
He uses a lot of big words, but really he just says,
“You’re lucky. You could have been killed. You beat
the odds this time, but it won’t happen again. I blame
the TV. Kids grow up watching their superheroes living
through those kinds of accidents, not knowing how
easy it is to die. I can’t believe you weren’t hurt, you’re
really lucky.” The doctor snaps the chart shut and shakes
his head, but all I’m thinking about is, maybe, just maybe
I am a super hero!
I don’t tell the doctor that it’s the second time I was
hit by a moving vehicle and survived unharmed.

11

Alexandra Jensrud

I

n the city of Delsera there is a circus. It has elephants
and jugglers, tigers and clowns, lions and tight rope
walkers. There is also a grand ringmaster with dark
bushy hair and beady eyes. Circus Quesera is the best
circus in all the lands, people come from lands unknown
to see the ringmaster and his attractions. But Quesera’s
biggest attraction of all is the lovely trapeze artist, the
ringmaster’s young ward.
Her name is Nailah. She has black skin that often
shines with sweat, dark hair covering her head at barely
half an inch’s length. She has black lips and eyes, a long
neck and nose, and a pointed chin. She wears bangles
of gold on her wrists and on her ankles. She wears
sarongs and skirts made of light pink and green fabrics.
They twirl around her when she walks, when she
performs, and when her lover twists her in the air as
he often likes to do.
The circus has been the girl’s home since birth.
Her mother and father had performed for Quesera as
a breathtaking trapeze duo. She was twelve when they
died, taken by a disease that swept through Delsera and
her desert sisters, devastating the nation. The ringmaster
took her in and taught her the art of trapeze, allowing her
to continue her parent’s legacy.
“No,” she screams. She’s sixteen and says the word
to the ringmaster for the first time, struggling against
arms that restrain her. The ringmaster’s man servant is
on her left, one of his other ruffians on her right. The
ringmaster stands in front of her, his sneer illuminated by
the moonlight.
“Are you trying to escape, Nailah?” He says.
He steps closer, something golden in his hands.
“Where will you go?”
She spits on the ground, fighting to free herself. Her
dark eyes glow with rebellion. “I will never perform for
you again.”
The ringmaster’s laugh is chilling and Nailah
winces as he cups her chin in his hand. He forces her eyes
to meet his, all rage and power. “You will perform every
night until the day your limbs are too brittle to hold you.”
He bares his yellow teeth in a snarl and clasps the
golden torque around Nailah’s neck before she can resist
any further. “If you try to leave this city, girl, or if you do
anything else to flare my temper, that band will make you
regret it. You’re mine. Never forget it.”
That night, for the first time, she feels the biting lash
of the whip against her back. The cloth from her shirt
sticks in the wounds and her body burns in pain. Tears
fall as she performs the next evening, cascading from bar
to bar. But they look like gems falling in the circus light
and the audience is in awe.
12

On her eighteenth birthday Nailah watches the
circus from her seat far above. The audience watches
the lion tamer, the clowns, and jugglers and they cheer
appreciatively. But Nailah knows they are really waiting
for her. The circus has come to depend on her. The nights
she couldn’t perform were bad for business. They were
worse for her when sickness or exhaustion earned her the
ringmaster’s wrath.
Tonight is her eighteenth birthday and the circus
is celebrating by hosting an extravaganza. She tries to
count the audience but loses her place. She prays there’s
enough. The ringmaster has promised that if she brings
in 500 guests for her birthday performance, he will allow
her to have an apartment in the city.
“I don’t see the harm,” he’d said when she asked,
barely looking up from his ledgers. She had brought him
a lot of business that season and his spirits were high.
“But since your salary has always gone to your room and
board here, I’m not sure how you’ll afford it.”
She had been certain that was a no in disguise. She
began to bow and leave when he spoke again.
“If 500 people come to your birthday celebration next
week, I will give you the money for the apartment.”
It was too soon for relief to flood her. “If I do, then
you will give me my salary every week? Like everyone
else.”
“Yes.” It looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth,
but he nodded grimly and waved her away.
She stands as her act begins. She takes the bar in her
hands and mutters a single word. “Please.”

For the first time she sits on her small terrace. The
roof of her modest apartment shows a view of the lower
city, the river, and the twinkling lights of the circus
farther on. She is cradled in her lover’s arms. It is the first
time she has left the circus in six years and the first time
she has been with her lover without fear.
“We can be together now,” he whispers in her ear.
He feeds her a strawberry she bought at the market that
day, glowing with pride as coins clinked in her purse.
The next morning she is late to arrive at the circus.
“It’s because of that boy, isn’t it?” The ringmaster
asks her as the whip sounds across her back. Her body
is shuddering against the ground, tears and mud streak
her face. The torque restricts and she gasps for breath,
clutching at the collar. “If you are late again, you will
both regret it.”
That night her lover rubs aloe into her back. She
whimpers with every stroke and he cries with her.
He holds her gently late into the night.
“You will regret being with me,” she says, trying to
push him away from her. He clutches her closer, holds
her to him as hard as he dares.
“Never.”
“We should leave this place,” he says to her one
night. The night is so hot they are forced outdoors.
Over the years the view from the terrace has changed
little. Some of the buildings are higher but the lights of
the circus still shine brightest.
“We could travel,” he continues, oblivious to the
fall of her face, lost in his dream. “There are other cities
we could go to, better places. We could go to Paris or
New York.”
She shakes her head sadly and slightly touches the
golden collar at her neck. She swoons from the power
it emits, surging into her body through her fingertips,
reminding her why she can never leave. She grabs her
lover’s hand and squeezes it as if for the last time.
“You know there is no escape… for me.”
He knows the tone in her voice, he has loved her
for a very long time. He lays his fingers lightly on her
cheeks and kisses her dark lips. His plan is forgotten in
the night.
Sleepwalking has plagued Nailah since she was very
young. More than once the night has taken her too close
to the city’s borders. Tonight is no exception. She wakes
on the city wall, staring out over the deserts she can
never cross. She tries to sneak home but it is too late. She
was too close to the border. She hears sounds of pursuits
behind her and begins to run.

She runs down the cobbled streets, her bare feet
aching as they hit the stone. She slows as she comes to a
fork in the road. She can hear the thundering footsteps
behind her and hear the shouts. She doesn’t know
whether to turn left or right. Before she knows it, they’re
on her from all sides. A torch is held high, illuminating
her face and that of her assailant. The ringmaster sneers
at her like he always does. His beady eyes hold sadistic
laughter and scorn.
“I told you,” he snarls, shoving his gnarled face closer
to hers. “I told you that you’d never be able to leave me.”
The collar tightens and her hand flies to it. It
constricts further and her face turns purple as she
struggles to breath, and amid the laughter of the ring
master and his ruffians she falls helplessly to the ground.
Nailah wakes in a cold sweat, not knowing how she
has returned home. The night has gone chilly and her
windows are ajar. She stands to shut them but is trapped
by the lights of the circus. She is still standing and staring
when her lover wakes at dawn. He pulls her from the
window. As she bathes and eats, his eyes never leave her.
He walks her all the way to the circus though she insists
he doesn’t. He risks painful punishment if he reaches the
stables late.
“I will come to your show tonight,” he says. It is
unnecessary. He always goes to her shows; night after
night she searches for him in the crowd before she takes
her first leap. She nods and rests her head in the crook of
his shoulder. He is warm and the most beautiful man she
has ever met. She knows that she will miss him.
She prays that he will miss her too.
She sees the ring master coming near and pushes
her lover away. “You must go,” she whispers. One last kiss
and she runs from him. In a hidden corner she kneels,
remembering his touch and his scent. She fingers the
collar at her neck, remembers how many people over the
years had told her it was beautiful. She is convinced these
people’s eyes are never fully open.
It is night when Nailah grasps the polished wood of
her bar and gazes over the audience. They wait in hushed
anticipation, breaths held, for her to perform. She wants
to find her lover’s face but forces herself to look away.
She knows the tears are falling freely now but she doesn’t
care, it’s not the first time she’s cried up here. She looks
down at the nets below her. Nets she knows haven’t been
repaired or reinforced for years. Gracefully, she takes the
first daring leap and, lifting her fingers one by one, she
lets go and falls.

13

Sarai Meyer

The last quilt Grandma made
(before the arthritis got too bad)
is spread perfectly flat

My covered irises keep me from the truth,
that I’m losing you.
Your feeble hand touches mine
and I wish I could go with you—
to that place beyond the rain.

Raindrops strike the window
with determined effort to get inside.
Distant thunder bellows a
hollow melody—
a dim soundtrack.
15

Ripples

Amber Anderson

I watch the darkness turn into a luminous morning
glow, right before the birds begin their chorus and before
frantic business professionals, sipping their favorite cup
of Joe, set out on their early commute into the exhaust
filled metropolis. Their radios dialed in to their favorite
morning shows and cell phones plastered to their
earlobes, I pass them one by one effortlessly. No glitches
to burden me. No unforeseen road blocks. A smooth
sail if you will. It’s similar to the magic of sailing on
an uncharted sea. I long to stick my head out over and
watch the bow cut through the glassy water, trailing with
large ripples that split into opposite directions.
I often envy those ripples sent off in either direction
with no means to an end. They go for what seems
like miles until they merge with other ripples to be
carried off into another direction without a thought. So
carefree a life these ripples have on their expressways,
much opposite from the various interstate pile ups and
numerous detours I have encountered. Oddly enough,
I catch myself looking, or gawking as ‘they’ say, at any
fender bender or wreckage that happens to be on the
side of the road the same way I stare at those ripples.
Difference is, the ripples give me peace, and more often
than not, the road siders give me a laugh because it is not
I who has driven off like a buffoon and crashed my brand
new Mercedes Benz.
Of course I am grateful to see no one is injured,
but for some reason, I chuckle at seeing a 50,000 dollar
car wrinkled like my collared shirt just took out of the
dryer. I mostly giggle because that Mercedes will be
back on the road cruising by next Tuesday, all ironed
out by a professional plastic surgeon, I mean, auto body
technician. The insurance companies just eat it up the
same way my shiatsu hoovers her dry, bacon flavored
pebbles each day. A good old girl she is too! A lot of
spunk left in that Sally. I swear that dog walks me more
than I walk her.
We walk by the train yard when we go on our
adventures and Sally always spazzes when the conductor
toots his horn. “Cool your britches. He’ll never hear ya
over that steel beast,” I say. Talking to a dog, what good
that’ll do me! That’s me; I do a lot that that’s no good. So
what if I hide my candy bars deep in the armrest of my
recliner so my wife, Darla, can’t find them. It doesn’t help
my blood pressure, but neither does all my yelling I do at
the tube when the Yankees are playing us at home. Those
son of a bitch yanks. Give our guys 250 million and
they’ll give birth to a decade of pennant races and maybe
they’ll win it every other year just the same.
Darla stays in the kitchen when the game is on. She
can’t stand to watch me get so blue in the face. She calls
me a puffer fish and says I should leave my nitpicking to
the overgrown tree rats in our backyard. I never listen
16

though. I shake my head and grumble, grabbing the
flipper to find something else to submerge my mind with.
If that doesn’t work, I get my ass out of the grungy chair
and head down to the river.
I used to fish this river until they struck oil a town
over, before it became a sewage dump. It was bustling
and booming with hearty fish. Now, it’s just ridden with
stank. I still enjoy walking along the shoreline. The
river is still a beauty of her own, her womanly curves
shaping the land with each bend. I heard once that early
natives habited this area for quite some time before
that angry governor enslaved their children, raped their
women, and slaughtered every last painted face in sight.
I shiver and cringe at times when the wind is just right;
knowing that every footstep I take may be on someone’s
grave. Sometimes, I feel there are eyes upon me in every
direction and hear faint whispers until I realize it’s just
brush rustling around near the sandy shore.
I have to give my cheeks a pat or two and calm myself
back to reality. Ah yes, that’s when the blood returns to
my face and becomes a rosy furnace. Although, why do
I feel the warmth? I was only thinking and yet, I feel it
happening even in my toes. I’m not at the riverbanks
blocks away from my house. That’s right, I’m coming
home from work, driving the same monotonous route
I’ve used the last fifteen years. I could do it blindfolded,
which I must be. I have to be because everything is dark.
I feel panic and my heart beating fast like it’s going to
tear itself out of my chest cavity. My saliva tastes of iron
and I hear faint commotion around me. I try to wiggle my
pinky finger and nothing. Open your damn eyes, I scream
to myself. My eyelids find enough strength to make halfmoons, just enough to get a glimpse. There are lights
and people all around me as if I’m the main attraction
at the town carnival. There are strong hands holding
my limp head up preventing me from getting cut on the
already bloody glass. I’m starting to finally feel, but it’s
nothing but my stiff, half ton body under what looks to
be remnants of my dashboard. I half smirk because now
I have my very own wrinkled and ravaged junker that
needs a miracle iron.
There’s blood splattered all around me, and all of it
came out of my old and decrepit ass. How am I not dead
yet, I wonder? An EMT placed an oxygen mask over my
cut up face, and I took the most satisfying breath, as if
it were an addictive drug. I started to feel lighter and
relaxed as a slight breeze wisped across my face briskly.
I closed my eyes with a smile as it reminded me of
basking on the deck of the catamaran in the midst of
summer. My mainsail always facing due south, it parts
those magnificent careless ripples as it glides through the
sea, giving them a new course for their journey.

Sister
Rebekah Pahr

Half, but only half.
If we shared full blood,
too close to stand
or understand
each other.
Made of muppet madness,
lilac riot and piano pain.
Violet flower fairy chains,
bound forever
to a promised land of
juniper shade and iridescent shadow,
shimmering
far away river fog.
Never steady,
wild and windy,
brown sugar and goldenrod,
thistle and milkweed pod.
Puppy dog and perfectionist,
host a caterpillar funeral.
Sewing machine screams
accusations clearing
electric air,
a spring thunderstorm.
Afterwards, skipping through the pools
of tears,
stitches and stars
splattered by muddy mascara.
Butterfly catch and release,
dipping down to earth,
soaring to cloud castles,
or blackout oblivion.
Mirror and missing piece,
peace,
other hand,
hidden half of brain,
home.

Distorted doppelgangers,
I would cut off my arm to save you
or throttle you with it.
Crystallized covert signals
across the table on Sunday afternoons.
Best friends fade,
heightening our addiction.
Crushing maple tree dreams,
between a tire-swing
pendulum,
prodigal son and golden one.
Brands burned,
into your back,
my brain.
Blackmailed forever
by our trespasses.
So we seal this family secret
confidential,
and bury it at the bottom
of the mound of moldy
laundry in the basement.
Happy when strangers
stumble out our similarities,
instead of our differences.
Accidents,
made of blunders and best intentions,
an ancient recipe,
peel, chop and blend a better family â&#x20AC;&#x201C;
myth as tired as the American Dream.
Out of this folly,
they gave us the gift of each other,
no mistake
to know that we exist
to prop each other
up through this
pogo-stick life.

17

Transience
Sarah Bailey

Dense air hangs, waits
to unleash a torrent, winter clings
to the heart of those dark clouds,
chilling all that passes through
falling.
Deep rumbles shake
loose the waiting winds while
a grey sky flickers with
flashes of color and scent
dissolving.
A dim purple smell,
billowed pastel blooms,
wither and fall lightly
make way for the crisp and
bursting.
Lush grasses, interrupted
by bashful violets and waves
of proud swaying goldenrod until
they reach their fullness, now
fading.
Glowing dusk slips behind the hills,
caressing each blade and limb
as it goes, foretelling another,
more beautiful flourish
approaching.
One still and solemn
breath before the winding exhale,
now the time is long past for
change steps softly,
transforming.

18

Hanging Out
Kah Shepard

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Irvine Park
Zach Murphy

It was almost a year since that horrendous day—an
ever-present memory will haunt my life forever. I needed
to find a place of refuge, a place to clear my thoughts of
any possibilities of somber reflection.
I took an aimless drive through the city, pondering
where I could find peace of mind. It probably wasn’t the
best idea, but what is? Anyway, as I was approaching the
main street, feelings of despair came over me as I began
to fight back flashbacks of traumatizing images. I got an
intense inkling that I couldn’t continue on the road I was
taking. So, I glanced to my left, and there it was—that
awkward looking, diagonal street that I’ve never in my
life thought about going down. It was a modest road and
it was easy to ignore. The way the street angled off made
it impossible to see where it led to, but I always assumed
there wasn’t anything worthwhile back there. It was
almost as if the street was inviting me, so I took that turn
for the first time.
The road led to a small backstreet that eventually
turned into cobblestone. As I continued on, my eyes were
overwhelmed by astonishment. A beautiful park resided
in the mysteriously secluded space. The area was filled
with old oaks, gigantic crab apple trees, and winding
walkways that were bordered by delicately cut grass and
black iron benches that were completely unoccupied.
I smiled, and a wonderful feeling took over my body
as I gazed at the magnificent site. I parked the car
immediately and got out to explore. I walked across the
street and journeyed onto a rust-colored brick sidewalk.
A sign read, “Irvine Park.” The name was brand new to
me, and the park was like nothing I had ever seen before.
Up ahead, there was a spectacular water fountain in the
middle of a circular courtyard. There were blood-red
chrysanthemums that perfectly surrounded the base, and
the water from the fountain spouted out gloriously and
proud. I took a seat on the edge of the fountain pool and
I felt the refreshing mist of the water grace the back of
my neck. As I looked up to the sky, all I could see were
the exquisite colors of autumn leaves. It was a mixture of
reds that glowed like rubies, oranges with a fiery flame,
and yellows as bright as lemons. The leaves shimmered
like a humble celebration of life and transformation.
The treetops surrounded the whole entire park, like
an umbrella protecting a sacred area from the outside
troubles of the rest of the world.
I stood up and decided to take a walk across another
piece of the park. It was a small field of bright, green
grass. In the distance, there was a delightful gazebo
resting in the shade. I trotted up into the gazebo and sat
down under the canopy. I laid my head back to relax as
I admired the splendor of the park. To me, it was the

epitome of peace and tranquility. I sat there, wondering
why it had taken me so long to discover this place, and
why I had never heard of it. It was right under my nose
all along, like a charming hidden gem tucked deep into
the center of the city.
I closed my eyes for a few moments and listened
to the sounds of the birds singing, the fountain water
flowing, and the light wind blowing through the leaves of
the trees. I opened my eyes back up and there was a girl
standing by the steps staring at me. Startled, I quickly sat
up. “Whoa. I didn’t even hear you,” I said.
“Oh, sorry about that. I just came here to pass some
time,” she answered.
She walked up into the gazebo and sat down across
from me. Her eyes had a touch of grey and mystery. A ray
of sun shined on her face, and a gentle breeze blew a few
strands of her dark brown hair across her cheek.
“Don’t you just love this place?” she asked.
“Yeah, I do. Actually, this is the first time I’ve ever
been here,” I answered.
“I come here every so often,” she said.
We began talking, and minutes turned into hours.
We shared our thoughts on the simple things like our
hobbies, favorite foods, and music. And we discussed
complex issues, like the evolution of technology and
whether it brings people closer together or distances
them. We talked about fate and religion, curious as to
why bad things happen to good people, and if Hell and
Heaven can exist on Earth. We speculated about abstract
thoughts, like whether the world was coming to an end
soon or not, and if all of our memories will be diminished
along with it. When she smiled, my heart began to race,
my face began to blush, and I got a tingling feeling in my
stomach.
“What’s the worst thing that has ever happened to
you?” she asked.
I hesitated and thought deeply for a while. I knew
what the worst thing that has happened to me was, but
I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to uncover it, let alone talk
about it. But I felt comfort around her, and I figured it
would be the right moment to say it. So I began.
continued on next page...
19

Irvine Park

nce

er

continued

“It happened less than a year ago. I was on my way
home after an icy snowstorm, and I was anxious to make
it home safely. There was a girl crossing the street, and
I didn’t see her until she came into view of my lights.
I swerved out of the way, but I couldn’t gain control as
my car spun out and ran right into her. My eyes filled
with fear, and I could hardly process what had happened.
I jumped out of my car and a harrowing feeling took
over my body as I stared at the horrifying sight. I walked
across the icy street and I saw her body lying there as
blood leaked out from underneath her. I dropped to the
ground and broke down. Tears trickled down my face
and sweat ran down the back of my neck. I looked up
into the sky, and all I could see was black—nothing
but darkness.”
My eyes began to water and I told her I didn’t want to
talk about it anymore. She leaned over and kissed me on
the cheek and then told me that she had to leave.
I was confused as to why she had to go all of a sudden,
but I didn’t want to stop her. We shared a warm embrace
and then she said farewell and began to walk away back
through the park. I wondered if I would ever see her
again. I hardly had the strength to turn around because
the sight of her walking away would destroy me, but I did
anyway. I slowly turned my head, and she was completely
gone—nowhere to be seen. At that moment, it all became
clear to me, and I left my heart in Irvine Park.

crow A

crow B

The sun is peeking
and the puddle
Sarai Meyer

reflects, distorted,
like a wavy window.
The eager rays
lick it up, drop by drop,
the master unable to
quench his thirst.
When exactly should he
relent, relieved
from removing it?
And the other puddles on this street?
The sun won’t
stop soaking, ever

wD

crow E

crow F

thirsty. He steals
the clouds’ tears
like a tissue.
The smell of rubber

stomach twists in knots and her mind races in anxious
anticipation of the ceremony that will soon begin.
She stands tall and straight as the young maidens weave
the pale pink and blue flowers into the raven silk of
her waist-length hair. Crowned with a light golden
circlet, she wears an ornate bejeweled dress sown with
the same flowers that ornament her midnight tresses
and her fair bronze skin radiates with a brilliance that is
only outshone by her fierce blue eyes. No bride in her
tiny village has ever been so adorned, and she can’t
stop the swell of emotion when she catches her
reflection in the tiny mirror at the far end of the room.
She orders the attendants to leave her and sits alone in
the large preparation room, pondering the events of the
coming night.
As she allows her thoughts to wander, she fingers
he small pendant suspended from the thin golden chain
that wreathes her slender neck. Hued in the shape of
a tiny drop of water, it was crafted from a deep blue
sapphire to match her stormy eyes. Presented to her at
birth, the pendant has marked her for this day her entire
life. It is called Ra’intzel in the old tongue, though most
people refer to it as a Rain for short. It means God’s gift,
and it is how she got her name, just like the pendant
because her parents saw her as exactly that. She was
pledged long before she was ever conceived, the price
for her family’s survival, and there is no escaping that
arrangement now.
Forcing herself back to the present, Rain wonders
about the man who will join her at the altar. Perhaps he
is as nervous as she is at this moment, sitting somewhere
in a room by himself wondering about her. Or maybe, to
him, this is just another duty to perform, another task
to be done that he thinks no more of than his morning
ablutions. Does he give any thought to her as a person,
or is she just another young virgin, promised by her
parents in exchange for food and goods?
Rain is old as far as these things go; the deal was
made to wait until her sixteenth year. And he can’t be that
much older, perhaps twenty-five, so maybe he’ll
treat her with compassion. But none of this matters.
She will do what has been asked of her for love of her
parents; she will not dishonor them. She will be brave
and beautiful, an example for all the other young women
who share her fate.
A side door opens slowly, interrupting her reverie and
her mother walks steadily to her side with a mixture of
pride and passion, joy and sadness painting her aging
22

features. Rain’s mind flashes back to the advice and
comfort of their last conversation, when mother spoke
about the ceremony to come.
“It’s a lot to ask, we know,” came her mother’s halting
words, “but this arrangement has ensured the survival of
your entire family.”
“Mother, I’m scared.”
“As I’m sure all young women are when their day
comes, but you should take comfort in knowing you are
much older than many who are chosen. We made certain
of that.”
“It’s not the cleansing and binding ceremony that
worries me… It’s what comes after.” The concern poured
from Rain’s lips as the heavy tears that rolled down her
glistening cheeks. “Will it hurt?” she had asked, thinking
of the post-ceremony ritual that seemed at once both
magical and cruel. Her mother smiled in that far-off way
of hers and sat by her side.
“He is not a vicious man. I am sure he will be as
gentle as he is able. What most young people do not
realize is that he will be nervous and anxious too. After
all, he has an obligation to fulfill to the community as
well as to you. It is his duty and rite just as it is yours.
It is part of God’s gift, just as you are, child.” Her words
were spoken softly, kindly, and Rain had been calmed by
their sincerity, at least for a while.
Now she sits in the grandly furnished preparation
room, leaning against her mother, too nervous even
to cry. As the moments stretch into what feels like an
eternity, at last her mother speaks, “You look beautiful,
child. You will make us very proud tonight.” Rain is
pleased despite herself at her mother’s admiration.
“Mother, I…”
“Don’t worry, dear one, it will be over before you
know it. And then there will be a feast. After tonight, we
will not see one another again for some time, but just
remember that we love you.”
“I love you too, Mother.” It is all Rain can manage
as the flood of emotion returns, threatening to
overwhelm her.
“It is time.” Her mother’s voice brings the reality
of the moment fully to bear on Rain’s young shoulders
as she is led to the reception hall and escorted by her
family up the steps to the temple garden. After brief tears
and well-wishes, Rain leaves her family and enters the
temple on her own, where they are not allowed during
the ceremony. She walks the long hallway in something
like a dream, barely registering the rich tapestries or the
ornate sconces that bathe the chamber in light. Her steps

are purposeful and before she is aware of the time having
passed, she is standing at the altar and the ceremony has
begun. Her nervousness has fled to be replaced by a quiet
resolve in dutifully pledging herself to the task she has
been appointed.
Rain examines her partner intently. He is sleek and
tall, looking regal and magnificent in the flowing robe
and tabard that mark his exalted position. He is adorned
with the same pale flowers that hug her slender, feminine
form, but the clear, lean muscles of his arms give him
a fierce and powerful masculinity. As Rain studies him,
again wondering what kind of a man he is, she notices
he looks younger than she remembers and this thought
gives her comfort. His eyes are kind as he looks back at
her and his voice is gentle as he speaks soothing words
to her between the prayers and incantations of the
cleansing and binding. She is calmed by his manner and
her heart quickens only slightly as she rests her hand in
has while the priest wraps the cord around her wrist as
he completes the binding ceremony.
It is over in what seems an instant, with only
the ritual to perform before the feast can begin. Rain
waits with breathless anticipation, lying naked now
upon the cold stone slab that is the only furniture in

the ritual room. He circles her slowly, admiring the
blossoming curves of her flowery form. She can sense his
nervousness. She smiles plaintively, reassuring him that
this is what is necessary for her family to survive and she
is glad to offer herself for them. He is emboldened by her
words and kisses her lightly on the forehead as he shifts
the fabric of the robe around his waist. His thrusts are
quick and methodical, simultaneously drawing blood and
a cry from her parted lips.
As her blood pools in the ritual channels of the
ancient sacrificial table, Rain’s dying thought is not of fear
or resentment. She does not experience the pain as real
and intense, but is removed to a place in her mind where
she knows only amusement at the true meaning of her
name, Ra’intzel, God’s gift. Her whole life she had known
that she was a gift to her family, granting them a chance
at food and survival, but she was never truly theirs. The
teardrop hung around her neck has marked the inevitable
certainty of this day like the ones that flow down her
cheeks as the priest finishes his work, carving out her
still-beating heart and replacing the blade to the sheath
at his waist. God had given Rain for her family’s survival,
but she was not meant for them; she was a gift for him.

Shell,
a gift of wide berth,
protecting from brush,
of unwelcomed
fingers in public places.
Prickly,
hermit crab,
despised,
blissfully ignored.
Locked in looping shell of routine,
work, eat, sleep, and be merry
for that –
you will die.
Skin screaming,
unclean,
leper-hermit crab,
teenage feeling,
no matter how many times you shower,
that fishy reminder won’t fall off.
Decay,
inside shell of hermit crab,
smells like salty vomit of river bottom,
tomatoes with blossom rot in the sun,
sweat under old hoodies,
make-up masks, curdling.
Burden,
big mistake –
on my back,
wondering how to shed,
crawl out of this,
hollow dank place
where I once died.

THE

Curse

Serena Asta

“These are Kotex sanitary belts.”
My younger sister, Margie, and
I peered at the profile of a peaceful
looking young woman on the box,
next to a cellophane window that
showed white elastic straps. Mom
ripped open the box and motioned
me closer.
“You put it on like this.” She
positioned an elastic belt around
my hips that, to my horror, dangled
two straps and clips – one in front
and one in back. On the outside of
my underwear, thank God. “Then
you take a Kotex pad,” she pulled
one from the box, “and pull this part
through the front clip, here, like
this…”
Margie was embarrassed, too.
I was twelve, she was eleven, both in
our underwear. In the living room.
Our eyes met and made a silent
promise never to speak of this again.
“Margaret, can you see this?
Come over here so you can see.
Becky, stop rolling your eyes.
Watch me, or you’re going to be very
confused when the time comes.”
My face felt hot. A trickle of
sweat slid out from under my
training bra and dribbled down my
side. Dear God, I prayed silently.
If you could please arrange to have
the earth open up and swallow me
right now I would really appreciate it.
“Next, slide the pad between
your legs like…” She repositioned
herself behind me while I continued
to pray for death. “…This. Then
connect it to the clip back here. Can
you see Margaret? Come over here,
take a look. You’re going to need to
do this in a moment.”
Mom had tricked us, told us to
meet her in the living room so she
could show us a couple of things.
We thought it meant new clothes or
school supplies or some other fun
gift. But no. It was just Mom, the
obstetrical nurse, stripping us down
to t-shirts and undies, providing

a clinical demonstration on this
technical aspect of womanhood. At
least she had Dad take our brother
and younger sisters out to the library.
To be fair, Mom had done a good
job of preparing us, telling us from a
young age that at any moment, our
Menstrual Period could descend on
us. She left her nursing textbooks
out so all her kids could peruse them
without shame. Not that seeing black
and white x-rays of fallopian tubes,
ovaries, and other blurry body parts
helped much. But she did her best to
make what happened with our bodies
seem normal and not scary.
She’d told us all – including
my little brother – how our Aunt
Linnea, raised on her family farm
in Hector, Minnesota, had never
been told about her period. When it
started, she thought she was dying.
Aunt Linnea never told her family
so as not to burden them with her
impending death. It was a horrible,
terrible story. We always felt very
sad for Aunt Linnea, the youngest of
twelve children, born at a time when
mothers and daughters were too
embarrassed to discuss such things.
In 1969, my mother was way ahead
of her time.
By the time I was in fourth grade,
I was excited about it. I started to
check my undies for signs every time
I went to the bathroom. One day,
the girls and boys were mysteriously
separated. The boys went outside
to play kickball. The girls were
seated silently on the floor of the
gymnasium, where nervous teachers
whispered and handed out little blue
booklets. The title, “Growing Up
And Liking It,” was wrapped around
a photo of three smug-looking
girls. The label on the back said the
booklet had been provided by Young
Miss Magazine and the Modess
company. There were lots of pictures
of girls hiking, playing tennis, even a
guide to stretching and keeping in

shape. Bor-r-ring. In the back was a
mail order form for an “Introductory
Hygiene Kit,” which confused me.
What did I need hygiene for? What
did hygiene mean?
Our physical education teacher
introduced a film, about “... what
happens when you girls become
young women…” There was a lot
of adult throat clearing and finally,
someone shut off the lights and
turned on the projector. It was a
black and white film that reminded
me of ancient TV shows with a girl, a
mom, a house…. after that my mind
wandered. I may have fallen asleep.
I believe those in charge managed
to get through the controversial sex
education portion of our schooling
without actually mentioning the
word “menstruation,” or even
“period.” They didn’t even use
euphemisms, like my cousin Anne’s
favorite, “My Little Friend.” The first
time I heard Anne say she had to go
to the bathroom because, “My Little
Friend is visiting,” I really thought
she had someone she knew hidden in
the bathtub.
Though my girlfriends and
I didn’t understand the official
attempts at educating us about our
bodies, we knew something “special”
was about to happen to us. We
gazed at the Kotex machines in the
girl’s school lavatory with awe and
wonder, and hoped we would soon
know what happened when you put
a dime in the slot and turned the
silver knob. Kathy Berghart actually
did just that near the beginning of
fifth grade. Someone snitched and
our teacher, Miss Knollwood, took
the little blue box from her without
saying a word. Kathy didn’t even
have time to see what was in there.
By sixth grade, Lori Lindstrom
and at least one other girl had their
periods, which made the rest of us
jealous. And not just because they
got extra bathroom breaks
continued on next page...

25

THE

Curse

continued

and days off from school. Any
girl that got their period was seen
as automatically more cool, older,
mature. I was desperate to make that
step toward becoming a grown-up,
to being a better and cooler person.
I prayed nightly that the miracle
would occur soon, that I would
undergo the magical transformation
from bucktoothed misfit to
beautiful cool girl who looked like
she’d stepped right out of Young
Miss Magazine. No one would
dream of making fun of that girl.
I couldn’t wait.
It was the summer before
seventh grade when Mom gave us
the sanitary belt and pad
demonstration. After that, Mom
started talking more openly, even
conversationally, about her “time of
the month,” though she never shared
details and we never asked.
“Well, I got The Curse last
night,” Mom would sigh as she
poured herself a cup of coffee.
We’d all just keep reading the comics
and chewing our Wheaties. But Mom
and I exchanged knowing looks.

26

In spite of all I knew, all
I’d hoped for and that helpful
demonstration, I was completely
shocked when it finally hit. It was
the start of seventh grade. I was
in science class. I started to feel
nauseous. Soon my stomach ached,
low in my belly. It got worse. And
worse. I started to feel like I’d been
punched. Eventually, I felt like a
slow lightning strike zeroed in just
under my belly button. It doubled
me over and brought tears to my
eyes. Julie Flammang thought it
was appendicitis. Mary Schnitzler
said it was probably food poisoning.
Everyone agreed I better get to the
nurse’s office. My teacher took one
look at me and handed me a hall pass
without comment.
Our clever school nurse figured it
out immediately. She also happened
to have a stack of “Introductory
Kotex Kits” for the newly
menstruating—very handy.
“You know how to use this,
honey?” Behind huge glasses and
a very tight perm, Nurse Nelson
pressed her lips together and looked
at me kindly.

“Yes, Nurse Nelson.” I took
the “Introductory Kotex Kit” and
shuffled into her sparkling bathroom.
It was equipped with what were
clearly barf bags. The tangy smell of
bleach made my nausea worse. And
in spite of the lesson from Mom, it
was hard to untangle the straps and
clips. I got out of there as fast as
I could, and managed to avoid
needing a bag.
Nurse Nelson ushered me into
a darkened, temperature-controlled
room with three small cots. “I’ll just
give your mother a call. Is she home
right now?”
I nodded, barely registering her
comments. The paper sheet covering
the cot crinkled as I laid down.
The plastic under the pillowcase
crunched. I curled up into a ball,
grateful we lived nearby. Mom should
be here any minute. But ten minutes
stretched into twenty stretched into
an hour. I shifted positions, holding
my belly, which tightened with what
I now knew were the “cramps” I’d
heard about. What a terrible word!
Cramps were what happened to a
leg muscle if you ran too hard.
This was more like being hit with a
baseball bat.
The nurse brought me a hot
water bottle wrapped in a towel and
showed me how to lay it across my
belly. I remembered the black and
white pictures of blurry fallopian
tubes and ovaries. But I couldn’t
imagine how God could create such
an awful design, one where I actually
felt the blood leaking. And I couldn’t
understand how this slow leaking
could cause such unbelievable pain.
Later, I would find out that a small
percentage of girls have extreme
pain when their period first starts.
I didn’t feel special, or pretty, or
grown-up. Just pissed. And terrified.
What else had no one warned me
about? What other awful shocks did
God have in store?

A Solitary Dialogue
Jeff Arcand

“Where does the time go?” asked Frank, as he stared
out the window of his kitchen, which sometimes doubled
as a bedroom.
“I don’t know, but if it keeps going at this rate, I’ll
be an old man in no time at all,” retorted Frank, who
apparently talks to himself.
“No, I mean where does it go? Really. Seems to me
that it goes in a circle,” said Frank, gesturing toward the
clock, with its second hand smoothly gliding around the
edge. “See?”
Frank was surprised at Frank’s ability to be so…
frank.
After some thought Frank said, “Obviously, people
fear what they don’t understand,” looking to himself for
confirmation.
“…Yes, I suppose. Mathematics is a perfect example
of that.” Frank said, wondering where he was leading
himself this time, then adding, “What does that have to
do with anything?”
“Well,” Frank continued, “Humans cannot fathom
the mere presence of the idea of an infinite continuum,”
Frank paused, seemingly for effect, but really just to
gesture to make sure it was alright to grab a glass from
his own cabinet, and pour himself some Black Velvet
whiskey. Frank agreed and poured three fingers worth as
he continued his explanation. “Thinking about circles is
a hell of a lot easier than thinking about lines,” he said,
as he set down his now empty glass back on the table and
poured another, this time with three ice cubes, leaving
Frank to stand there and wonder where he puts it all.
“You never know where a line is going to end, circles are
more final. Lines scare the shit out of me.”
“So, you mean it’s just easier to put time into a
circle?”
“It’s easier, yea. It’s easy to keep track of things when
you know what’s coming. Every week has the same days
in it. It’s comfortable.”
Frank thought he was agreeing with him now, “It’s
only logical to make it easier for everyone to keep track
of time,” he said.
Frank thought for a moment, staring down into
his drink. He watched the ice cubes spinning counter
clockwise in the glass. He knew they were melting, but at
such a slow pace, it was impossible to tell for sure.
Finally, he nodded, “Of course. People have always
made things easier for themselves by coming up with
ways to avoid what’s true in reality,” he seemed somewhat
annoyed at this point. Then, Frank watched him polish
of that glass with two swigs, two squints, and one heavy
exhale.
Frank looked at him in wonder, “I guess people just
made time up?” he wondered aloud. “I guess the

way that we keep track of it is a man-made concept, but
surely time itself is a natural occurrence.”
“In what respect?”
“Well, in respect to yesterday having happened,
today happening now, and tomorrow on the verge of
beginning.” Frank said, pointing to the clock showing
11:53 p.m. “You can’t deny that.”
“I don’t know what you mean when you say yesterday
has happened,” said Frank, reaching again for the
whiskey. “Just because of where the hands on the clock
lay something has changed? I don’t see the two as being
connected. We agree that the clock will say 12 soon
enough, we disagree that that means something.” Frank
took a swig reducing the newly replenished three fingers
down to two.
“So,
yesterday
hasn’t ended
even though
it’s about to
be tomorrow?”
Frank was
trying to
regain his
bearings,
“Is that what
you’re saying?”
“I’m saying
it doesn’t
exist.”
“What doesn’t exist? Yesterday, or tomorrow?”
“Both. Neither. It’s all in your head.” Frank said
setting his suddenly dry glass on the table.
Frank was sure he knew what he was saying now,
“I see, you’re saying that this very moment that we live
in is the only one that exists, right?” He was trying not to
lose his train of thought as he was speaking, “Yesterday
is over and tomorrow hasn’t begun. We’re living in the
present.”
“Ehh…” Frank was staring into his empty glass. “I’m
not preaching some ‘carpe diem’ stuff, though it’s not a
bad thought. You see, today doesn’t exist either,” he said
reaching for the bottle. “Today, tomorrow, yesterday, next
week, they’re all just names given to specific parts of the
same perpetually evolving moment.”
Frank was having a hard time following, and was
skeptical whether or not Frank was just toying with him.
“Surely, this moment now exists as we live in it, just as
the last and the immediate future. How do you deny the
present?”
Frank poured himself another, “What constitutes
as a day?”

continued on next page...

27

A Solitary Dialogue

continued

Frank thought for a moment, kind of wanting a drink
for himself now, “I suppose midnight to midnight begins
and ends a new day.”
Frank set his glass on the table, “Isn’t that a bit
arbitrary? Couldn’t you just as easily have said from noon
to noon, or 7:43 p.m. to 7:43 p.m.? As you would have
it, this cyclical idea of time demands that each moment is
equal to every other.”
“I suppose so…” Frank kind of twitched at this
realization, “But, we count to 12 hours, why not start an
end there?” he said trying to grasp at some reasoning for
the point he was arguing.
“But, there are 24 hours in the kind of day you’re
talking about. Why have two of each hour? And beside
that, why start a day at the highest number and not, as
logic would demand, at 1 o’clock?” At that, Frank sipped
his drink and waited for a reply.
Starting at one did seem to make more sense in this
light, but Frank was still trying to get a hold on what the
point of all this discussion was. “So, days don’t exist,”
said Frank, breaking the silence, “And hours are man
made devices to arbitrarily assign numbers to where the
sun or moon is, right?”
“Yes,” said Frank, “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, I’m
simply saying it puts this strange idea in peoples heads
that ‘tomorrow’ is a ‘new beginning’ when in reality there
are no beginnings or endings.”
Frank looked down into his drink once again.
The ice cubes were no longer spinning and had gotten
significantly smaller and completely translucent.
“You see, Frank,” he began once again, “Time is
intangible, no matter how many rules we make for it,
it will keep going as it always has with no beginning or
end. This glass of whiskey is distinct from the others I’ve
poured tonight. It started when I poured it, and will end
when I finish it. If that’s how you chose to see each day,
as its own separate entity, then that’s how you’ll live your
life.” Frank paused for a moment to check the time, it
was 11:58 p.m., “To new beginnings,” he toasted raising
his glass toward the clock.
He finished his last drink as the second hand passed
from 33 seconds to 41 seconds into the fifty-eighth
minute of the eleventh or twenty-third hour of the day.
Frank didn’t know what to think anymore. He had
gone through his whole life day by day, hour by hour,
year by year. He was constantly counting. The people
he knew were dreading their constantly approaching
birthdays. Now he knew that those numbers assigned
to their age didn’t really mean anything. They were just
there.
“Shit.”

28

My Fantasia
Rebekah Pahr

In the beginning,
there is always darkness –
deep and purple like an eggplant,
and blue bruises on knees and bananas.
Give life a name,
still and trembling –
watercolor songs,
the sound of Genesis.
Imagination floats
like thistledown
through Scotland.
Sea foam churned to root-beer,
around ankles,
trees like bloodlines –
fencing in freedom.
Fairy dust is clutched,
in a sweaty little fist –
last grain of time.
Dandelion blown into sunshine,
clover-bud cluster,
soft baby-bunny fingers –
pack all this into a thimble.
Growing, old skin and soul,
rejects the air –
Why do allergies exist?
Remember playing little house on the prairie.
Lastly, clamor for new cars,
blenders and master bedrooms.
Instead of hay lofts, tiger lilies and Peter Pan,
mud coating soles, while catching tadpoles.

My Jeremy
Heidi Fuhr

Louise, I knew from the first time I met that little hussy
that she was all wrong for my Jeremy. What kind of
girl gets pregnant that fast? I’ll tell you what kind: the
kind that wants to trap a man. And think about this,
Louise: my grandson was born exactly eight months and
sixteen days after Jeremy called from school and told
me. Imagine that, a girl who knows she’s pregnant, and
this was supposedly an unplanned pregnancy, Louise,
after two weeks. I don’t believe it. I’ll tell you what really
happened, Louise. What really happened was that my
Jeremy was going to leave that girl. He’s always had a
good head on his shoulders, Louise, you know that about
my Jeremy. He was going to leave that hussy because he
knew she was a sneaky little liar. That girl intended to
get pregnant. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she
stopped taking her birth control pills the very day she
met my Jeremy. Once she was pregnant he had to marry
her, because my son is a decent boy.
Oh Louise. I was so embarrassed at the wedding.
I had to send out announcements that Jeremy was getting
married, then I had to send out announcements about
the baby five months later. I know what the bridge club
girls were saying behind my back, Louise, you don’t
have to pretend you don’t know. That Doris was the
worst of them. I could tell when she gave me her phony
congratulations. Doris, whose grandson was arrested at
age sixteen. For shame. Oh, Louise, you never found out
what he was arrested for, did you? Well. You’re going to
love this: I ran into Janine at the post office and she said
that her nephew—you know, Harold’s son, the handsome
one with the mousy girlfriend—well Harold told Janine
that his son Don, or Dave, I think, is a police officer,
and one of the other officers in his precinct was the one
who brought Doris’s grandson in. Janine says he was
charged with possession of a controlled substance. Well.
Doris has no right to judge me, I’ll tell you that, Louise.
And shame on her for talking about people behind their
backs. I’ll tell you what I think about Doris, Louise.
I think Doris is a shameless gossip, that’s what she is.
Where was I? Oh yes. My Jeremy. I can’t believe that
girl, Louise. Do you know what that girl did when my
grandson was born? I’ll tell you what she did, and you
are not going to believe it. She wouldn’t let me into the
delivery room. She let her own mother in. My Jeremy
is lucky he got to be there. I have rights, Louise; I am
the paternal grandmother. Anyway, her mother lives in
Michigan. I’m the one who was here for them for the
whole pregnancy. I’m the one who was gracious enough
to accept that girl into my family when she got herself
pregnant out of wedlock, for goodness sake. I’m the one

who will be one phone call away any time that girl and
my Jeremy need a break from the baby. Oh, I tried to
get into that delivery room, Louise. I told that nurse
that she had to let me in, that my Jeremy needed me, but
she wouldn’t budge. I was so angry, Louise, I can’t even
tell you.
Now that little hussy is keeping my grandson from
me, Louise, she really is. Ever since Christmas, every
time I call I get the answering machine. Christmas was
an absolute nightmare, Louise. I don’t know where that
girl got her manners. Do you know that I got her a
beautiful mauve velour turtleneck from J.C. Penny, and
she had the gall to return it? She behaves like she was
raised by a pack of wolves.
Oh, Louise. Every time I tried to hold my grandson,
she decided it was time for a feeding or a nap. Speaking
of feedings, Louise, you’re not going to believe this.
I was mortified. Well. I made reservations for Christmas
eve at the Macaroni Grill; I wanted to take them out for
a nice dinner. You’ve never been there? It’s a fine dining
establishment, Louise, a really top-notch restaurant.
My Jeremy was a perfect gentleman: opening doors,
pulling out chairs, you know what kind of boy my Jeremy
is. Well. First of all, that girl ordered lobster.
I kid you not, Louise. Her meal cost almost as much as
mine and Jeremy’s did combined. The nerve. I live on a
fixed income. That isn’t the worst part, Louise. Get ready
for this. Do you know what that girl did, Louise? I will
tell you what she did: after dinner, we ordered coffee and
tiramisu. It’s a fancy dessert, Louise, I think it’s Japanese.
Why they served it at an Italian restaurant, I don’t know.
We were waiting for our coffee and dessert, and that
girl—oh, Louise, I am still mortified—that girl pulled up
her shirt and took her breast out of her bra, Louise. I am
not exaggerating. She took her very breast out, in front of
God and everyone at the Macaroni Grill, Louise, which
is a fine dining establishment, and she breastfed my
grandson. In front of everyone. I saw her nipple, Louise.
For goodness sake. Don’t you dare tell Doris, Louise.
I would never hear the end of it.

29

Editor Bios
Nick Hutchinson is a creative writing major who
is feverishly working to complete a novel during
his final year at Metropolitan State. He thinks in
compound sentences riddled with five-dollar words
and esoteric punctuation marks, and is utterly
convinced that language will save us.

Diane DeRosier Douglass

Another diabolical plan lost to the ringing phone,
“I need a walk.” I head to her cube.
Tromping down the industrial stairs to drown our whispers
we evaluate our favorite narcissist’s dye job.

Chiara Marano is a student of professional writing.
She is often found in the library with Mr. Green
and a candlestick.

One block of fresh air has us saying “hi” to local gangstas
with babies in arms and all-the-way losers
in front of the halfway house on the corner,
or is it a wet house?

Jamie McKelvey is a prose editor for Haute Dish
and a senior at Metropolitan State.
Sarai Meyer is a poetry editor for Haute Dish and
is pursuing her B.A. in creative writing. She enjoys
writing poetry on the roof, walking across the
Stone Arch Bridge in the evening and collecting
antique birdcages.

Aviary Sequence
#1

Ignoring “NO TRESPASSING” signs we peer through a window,
an empty room hazy and distorted.
We’re kids sneaking a peek into a circus tent
An Alphabetic
Murder
Cat Miller is a student of creative writing and is
watching for an exotic animal,
a midget, maybe
a fat lady.
crow
A
crow B
Imprinting my forehead in the window’s grime
hypnotized yet frantically praying,
“Hail Mary full of Grace, don’t let a rabid raccoon rip off my face,”
she is windows ahead, lighting another cigarette.

crow C
crow
“Don’t step there” she says,
pointing at a puddled black tarp
with the smoldering end of her Marlboro Light.
“Yeah. I fell through there…just last week.”

D

Vapors cloud its vision from the sweltering western sun
as it’s forced to watch Spaghetti
simmer,
crowJunction
G
crow H
retired and ashamed of its dilapidated condition
back turned on the East Side, honor reduced to wreck.
Numbness and empathy breeds thoughts of grandeur,
a metaphor of our own godforsaken lives,
but someone bought it, we weren’t quick enough,
crow K
crow L
smoke break’s over.

30

crow O

crow P

crow S

crow T

currently a senior at Metropolitan State. She is often
lost in thought and hopes to be found soon.

Amber Newman is studying creative writing
at Metropolitan State with the hope of being a
contributor to a magazine in the somewhat near
future. She currently lives in Minneapolis, works a
crow
E of interesting
crow jobs,
F and spends her free
collection
time planning and working towards her fantastic
dream life as a successful creative enthusiast.
Trent Olson is completing a B.S. in computer
science at Metropolitan State. Originally from
British Columbia, Canada, he has lived in Vancouver,
Toronto and Winnipeg before coming to Minnesota.

crow I

crow J

Marty Owings is a recent Metropolitan State
graduate. His a reporter for KFAI Radio News and
mncapitolnews.com, covering politcs at the Capitol.
If he gets a spare moment, he likes to draw, pain
and collect old things.
Sally
is a very N
recent Metropolitan State
crow
MReynoldscrow
graduate. She has been a poetry editor for Haute
Dish through good times and bad. We thank her.

Matty Spillum was born and raised in the Twin
Cities, and received his B.A. from Metropolitan State
University in 2006. He is currently a M.S. candidate
in the technical communications program at
Metro,
as a graduate
crow
Q as well crow
R tutor in the Writing
Center. In addition, he is a frequent correspondent
for USA Ultimate, the membership magazine for
Ultimate Frisbee’s governing body in the U.S. This is
his second tour of duty as an associate editor with
Haute Dish, and he will probably make frequent
and annoying references to the good old days at
staff meetings.

crow U

crow V

BIOS
Amber Anderson is a writer from Newport, Minnesota. She is
a senior at Metropolitan State studying for her B.A. in creative
writing. Her hobbies include bowling, zumba, music, traveling,
reading and most of all, writing.
Free Arcand is a student at Metropolitian State. It’s a school.
He enjoys sleeping in chairs or on carpet and is currently
writing sad jokes on cigarettes.
Serena Mira Asta had her first poem published on Miss
Gunderson’s fourth grade bulletin board about one hundred
years ago. The author has been striving to match that initial
level of acclaim and excellence ever since. Serena is also a
visual artist and is working toward a major in creative writing
with a minor in studio art. She lives for the day when she can
once again have a house bunny as a pet.

Tawny Michels is currently a senior going into her final
year at Metropolitan State majoring in creative writing with
a minor in advertising. She currently holds an A.A. degree
from Inver Hills Community College, and is also a Nationally
Certified EMT-Basic. After graduating in 2012 she plans to
attend Hamline University to obtain her master’s degree in
creative writing. Her love of writing and photography has
always been very prominent in her life, even working as an
EMT, which is why she chose to pursue further education in
the form of a writing degree.
Zach Murphy is a screenwriting major in his third year.
He loves watching foreign films, daydreaming and eating
bacon, sometimes all at once.

Aviary Sequence
Trent Olson likes to call his work poetry, though most of
#1
his work pushes the formal bounds of poetry to extremes,
Sarah Bailey is a senior at Metropolitan State and will

Alphabeticchallenging
Murder and playing with traditional meanings of “the
be graduating in the spring of 2012 with a B.S.An
in English
crow
ACanadiancrow
B
poetic.” He is influenced
by fellow
experimental
teaching and a minor in creative writing. Her most recent
writers such as bpNichol, Darren Wershler and Christian Bök.
literary inspirations include Pablo Neruda, Mary Oliver and
Neil Gaiman. After graduation, Sarah plans to pursue an
Rebekah Pahr is pursuing a degree in technical
M.F.A. in creative writing with the hopes of teaching
communications with a minor in studio arts from Metropolitan
writing and literature courses in both academic and nonState University. While she is not busy with homework and
traditional settings.
overcoming her fear of technology, she enjoys writing,
drawing and painting and is inspired by childhood memories.
Collette DeNet is a senior at Metropolitan State. She is
Rebekah
in the
pursue a F
crow
C
crowwill
Dbe grad,uating
crow
E spring tocrow
in the process of discovering how words can heal the head
position in tech writing; Plan B is to live in Key West and
and heart.
paint on the beach for a year, Plan C is to become her
childhood idol Peter Pan.
Diane DeRosier Douglass is a Haute Dish editor repeat
offender. Currently the managing editor, she was the visual
Donna Ronning is a senior in the social work program at
art editor back when the magazine was taken off life support.
Metropolitan State University. She sees life as a continual
She has a B.A. and M.S. from Metropolitan State but just can’t
unfoldment of new possibilities.
stop from returning for “just one more.”
crow G
crow
H is a recent
crow
I graduate
crow
J
Kah
Shepard
First College
at
Heidi Fuhr received her bachelor’s degree from Metropolitan
Metropolitan State who created her own degree entitled
State University December 13, 2011, and has started her M.L.S.
“Psychology and Secuality: Current Trends and Perspectives.”
degree at Metropolitan State January. She majored in creative
She sings with the local funk band, Plasmatic Brain Spasm,
writing and minored in studio arts.
creates psychedelic art and travels.
Jerimy Grafenstein is entering his final year at
Kyle Stennes is working to finish a teaching degree he
Metropolitan State where he studies creative writing. He is
started about a decade ago. A full-time student and current
the 2011 Carothers award winner for outstanding College
stay-at-home
games,
being outdoors,
crow
K
crow L dad, he enjoys
crow
M puzzles,crow
N
of Arts and Sciences undergraduate writing at
Metropolitan
putzing on the computer, tutoring, drawing, and of course,
State. Grafenstein works as a freelance writer from his home
just spending time with friends, his wonderful wife and two
in Saint Paul.
precocious children. An avid reader from early childhood,
Alex Jensrud is a hard-working, creative soul currently
attending Metropolitan State University to get her degree in
creative writing with a minor in gender studies. She enjoys
cat, spaghetti and thrift stores. She has been writing since the
first grade when she wrote a controversial little
tale about
crow
O
the janitor stealing student’s desks. She is best known for her
cynicism and a sullen, sleepy expression most often worn in
class rooms.

this self-proclaimed Renaissance man developed a passion
for writing and theater, which he will one day bring to bear
on the impressionable minds of tomorrow. But for now, dear
reader, you are subject to either relish or resent the wayward
children of his fevered brain… or something ironic and witty
crow P
crow Q
crow R
to that effect.

Peter Laine is currently a student at Metropolitan State in the
creative writing program.
Sarai Meyer was born in Saint Paul, Minnesota and spent
four years of her childhood living in Arizona crow
and IllinoisS
before coming back to her snowy home in Minnesota. She
took a year off after high school to live in a castle in England
at Capernwray Bible School. Sarai attended Normandale
Community College for two years before graduating with
her A.A. in spring 2011. She has had three poems published
in Normandale Community College’s bi-annual literary
journal, The Paper Lantern. Now she is a full time student at
Metropolitan State University, where she is pursuing
B.A. in
crowa W
creative writing.